


i see you.

by QUILL_SILVER



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Coffee, Cognitive Dissonance, Family Feels, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, No Romance, POV Second Person, Random & Short, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QUILL_SILVER/pseuds/QUILL_SILVER
Summary: "How often it is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him." - Herbert, Frankthere's a child wanting to make her mother proud. there's a worried mother. there are calls not going through. i'm bad at summaries.





	i see you.

I see you leave the building from my car window. 

The sky you expectantly tilt your head up towards spreads gray and clouded. Your head lowers, levels with the rest of those black-clad passers-by, and you begin making your way to the bus stop at the end of the block. Even from here, I can hear the strained inhales you take in, the unvoiced promises you make to yourself. 

I remember, all those years ago, when you’d look to the sky walking out of the house, fist tightened around floral dress and eyes aglow, hoping. I remember you turning away from the gray, waiting on your brothers and mother with eyes fixed upon the pavement. The two of us never lived under blue skies—sorry for this.

Traffic stacks through the intersection. Your bus pulls away, its vibrant yellow dampening against the monotone of the street. I pull out, too. Around the both of us blares horns and impatience, and I know you’ve already plugged in your earphones. Was it classical you always turned to? I drive alongside the bus, eyeing my pace so I remain inching onward beside you. Whirlwind violins pour out of my speakers and drown out the world as I maneuver through the holdup. Slowly, carefully. Unlike the rest of the world, I have no place to be. 

My window parallels yours. You don’t know, and so when I dig out my phone and call you, you don’t notice me watching as you decline and silence. You press your lips together after a sigh drawn long, eyes closing as you rest your head against the window. I drop my phone back into the cupholder, reclining a bit. My heart clenches, but yours can’t be relaxed either.

I see you rush into class from the café across the street.

Coffee from here is chokingly bitter, the type of bitter that scratches at the back of your palate long after the cup is empty. I suck in a few drops at a time, wincing along, wondering how you manage to put up with the sting. The distorted image of you through the stained glass window bursts into the classroom, arms laden heavy with files and notebooks and readings. The desk you sit at is the closest to the front podium. I see you scribbling away, carving out term definitions and annotations a half hour before the class even starts. Although I can’t see, I’m sure there are water fees and phone bills littering the desktop, too. Your professor strolls into the room, sets his material by the lectern, and greets his early student. Regularly early, by now. The two of you chat on whatever new field you’re venturing into as a major, peers despite ages and positions, waiting for the rest of the class to swarm the seats.

_The sun filters itself through the screen upon your mother as she entertains her two sons. She carries the older on her back, spoon-feeds the younger applesauce in his highchair. With her sons together pinching at her cheeks and mottling the white of her shirt with apple’s dirt-yellow, she was caught in a tangle, one the mother not yet experienced enough to unweave her way out. It takes her a while before she realizes that you, her daughter, the middle child, is unattended, can run rampant. Forthwith, she drops the spoon, smearing fruit on the glass, and tears out the backdoor with her eldest still clinging to her back. You’re not in the yard, sieving through flower patches. Or in the living room, flipping through old movies. Or in the attic, cradling old photo albums. Your mom barrels through the house, sweat pooling through her already begrimed clothes, looking for you._

_She’s slumped in a third-floor hallway, panting into her own palm, the son on her back obliviously toying with a loosened string of her hair. Tears burn at the brims of her eyes, but they’re wiped away. Your mother pushes off the wall to stand, spins around with fervor, and there you are. You, haloed fuzzily in the afternoon light, dark ribbons of hair falling before your lowered eyes, fixed upon a notepad, sit primly at the desk in your late father’s office. You’re writing something, writing quite diligently, and look up when you hear your mother sigh out of relief. You ask if she needs anything. Moments slip by before your words get to her ears, and she slowly shakes her head. Awkwardly, ineptly, your mother smiles, and so you smile, too._

After your class ends, I stare as you stay behind. You’re rocking on your feet before your professor, dense tablet of papers safely nestled in arms, as he packs, seeming in a hurry. He pokes his head out from behind the podium and you give him your paper. Your professor looks at it, looks at you, and accepts it with a swipe, mouth opening for one terse syllable and another quick half-smile before he walks out. You’re left standing there, eyebrows raised. But you’re on a schedule, so you gather your things, snap a picture of the lengthy chalk scribbles on the blackboard, and leave.

I restart my car and you shuffle out of the building, bulging backpack tethered to your shoulders and embrace spilling over with classwork. I notice your nose tucked behind your phone screen. I frown at this—you needn’t be on your phone walking.

But when I call you, it’s only the same voicemail.

I see you fumble in your car before speeding to work.

The drive downtown is a full half hour, and you take this time to listen to another lecture. I observe you through our adjacent windows, watch you zealously record notes into your phone.

At the restaurant, you lean over the bar and annotate readings, hiding from coworkers behind the front of casually doodling on napkins. I’m settled at a faraway table, peering over the top of my menu. The work pulls you closer, and so you don’t notice when a restless bunch waves you over. All you do now is bend closer to the text, scrawling more aggressive notes.

My heart screams at me to intervene and help you keep your job, but my brain keeps me pinned against my seat. 

And so of course, your manager ambles over, eyes venomous slits and jaw hinged tight. You don’t see him until he starts talking. 

He lets flow whisper-yells of threats, of rhetorical questions and unsupported statistics. You remain on your feet as he reprimands you, strong and stone-faced against the blow of his words. I’m wilting into my chair—I know how you are behind the stone and bravado. 

An eternity seems to pass before he stops and retreats into the back, but it was probably longer for you. I see your hand raise to flick a droplet of his spit away. You whisk into the bathroom, determined to not crack in public. I don’t know whether to smile or cry at this. 

Out on the street, lamps flicker over me. I pull out my phone, the final time before the sun falls past the skyline. One beep. Two. Three.

_“Hi, mom.”_

My chest bursts at the seams. Your voice, live and quenching, is too much for me to hold, and yet it tells me everything—the irregular octave, the almost wobbly tone, the hastily masked sniffle. “Evening, dear. How’ve you been?”

_“I’m well. I just submitted this semester’s summative. Should be hearing back soon.”_

“Well done. You know I’m proud of you, more than anything.” I tighten a fist in my skirt. “I love you.”

The toilet flushes on the other end of the line, a laughable and stabbing coincidence, but it doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t have heard anyway.

I scrape together some hope. “Do you want to meet sometime, you know, now that you’ve turned all that in?”

You’re pondering, hesitating, and the silence on the line stretches long.

_“Okay.”_

The world floods with color.

_“Coffee tomorrow?”_

“No, no,” I say, still high on your response. “Let’s have tea. Coffee’s made so bitter these days, no?”

You breathe out a small chuckle. _“See you there.”_

You hang up, but my heart warms for the first time in infinities. I look up, and the spread of gray bleeds into magentas and peaches and lilacs. The instances caught between daylight and nightfall, the sky spills over with color. There’s even a wisp of blue curling out from behind the gray.

See that I’m proud of you, that I think of you. See that I see you. 


End file.
